Hold You Tonight
by androidilenya
Summary: "The highway won't hold you tonight/The highway don't know you're alive/The highway don't care if you're all alone/But I do, I do./The highway won't dry your tears/The highway don't need you here/The highway don't care if you're coming home/But I do, I do." Eönwë and Maglor. Not quite shipping. Oneshot. Written for B2MEM 2013.


**Was going to be a lot more shippy. Also better. But after 4000+ words I just... kinda gave up on the shipping and settled for mostly-platonic.**

******Written for Back to Middle-earth Month 2013. **Prompt from Day Twenty-seven: "But the Great Sea is terrible, Tuor son of Huor, and it hates the Noldor, for it works the Doom of the Valar. Worse things it holds than to sink into the abyss and so perish: loathing, and loneliness and madness."

**From _Unfinished Tales_ Part I: 'Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin'**

* * *

He found the elf standing by the sea, staring at the horizon as if searching for something that would never appear. His long, dark hair fell in front of his face, wind whipping it away, and tugging at his clothes, and drying the tears on his cheeks. The hands at his side were livid red, burned and blistered - and empty.

"What did you do with it?" he asked, not sure why he was here, not sure he was needed here. And maybe a little afraid of the answer he might receive.

Maglor's grey eyes never left the roiling waves before him. "I cast it into the water." His voice was a rasping whisper, hoarse and worn out as though he had spent the night screaming the the distant, unmerciful stars. "It is safe now. So I suppose, in some twisted way, our oath is fulfilled." A noise burst from his throat that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Eönwë winced. He had seen Maglor's brother falling into flame, clutching the radiant Silmaril even as it burned him. Had seen the desperate pain on Maedhros' face as the fire took him. And this elf, last of the sons of Fëanor-

"Why are you here?" Maglor asked, still not turning to the herald of Manwë. It almost didn't sound like a question - the Noldo's voice was flat, disinterested, as if he didn't really _care_ if Eönwë chose to answer or chose to walk away. As if he didn't really care about anything anymore.

"I..." He trailed off, lacking an answer that would satisfy even himself, let alone this broken shell of an elf that stood before him.

"Come to take me back to Valinor? To make me answer for my crimes and the crimes of my brothers?" Maglor might have been asking about the weather for all the emotion in his voice.

"Would you come even if I were?"

"I do not doubt that you could force me if you so wished." The elf's eyes drifted down to his hands, burnt fingers stiff and twisted, and Eönwë felt a pang of pity. The second son of Fëanor had always been so skilled with his harp, and now it looked as though he would never play again.

"I have no plans to force you anywhere," the Maia said, trying to force a gentle note into his voice. "The war is over, Makalaurë. These lands will have peace. It is your choice to stay or to go, as it is for all your kin."

"All my kin?" Maglor barked a bitter laugh, the sound surprising Eönwë. "All my kin are _dead_."

That wasn't strictly true, Eönwë knew - there was the cousin Artanis, now called Galadriel, and the twins that Maglor had allegedly taken in, and Gil-galad, the son of some cousin or other - but somehow now didn't seem like the best time to point out such technicalities.

"Even so, the offer stands." There was a sudden urge to apologize, to make this all better - put this broken Noldo back together, if that were even possible. "Makalaurë... you have to understand, I never wished for it to come to this."

"If you say so." Still that cold tone, uncaring and distant.

"It is true," he pressed. "I would have spoken for you - I forbade my followers from killing you and your brother, when you came to steal the Silmarils-"

Maglor's head snapped up and he met Eönwë's gaze, grey eyes smouldering. "You should have let us die," he snarled, rage and despair and regret mingling in his voice. Then he seemed to deflate, hands falling to his sides, eyes drifting back to the crashing waves under a sky the same dull slate as his eyes.

Eönwë left him there in the salt spray that mingled with the tears on his cheeks.

* * *

He came back. He didn't know why - or maybe he did, and it was just that simple.

The second son of Fëanor was standing waist-deep in the water, watching it run through his fingers. The waves tugged at his once-fine cloak, the formerly scarlet cloth now a faded, dull red, like drying blood, or the tired sun that shone down on these forsaken lands. His face was still streaked with dirt and tears, and Eönwë resisted the urge to scrub the elf's face clean with his sodden robe, as though Maglor were a child.

"You will catch your death of cold if you continue to stand there," the Maia said, not quite daring to join Maglor in the water. The waves lapped at the toes of his boots and seeped through, icy-cold, and he flinched away, wondering how the Noldo could stand it.

_He can stand it because it is not fire, and it does not burn him as the Silmaril did,_ something in him pointed out.

"Go away." Maglor sounded so tired, not a trace of bitterness in his voice, only - emptiness.

"Makalaurë..." He stepped forward, unthinking, and winced as his boots were flooded with seawater, the holes his feet left in the sand swiftly filling behind him. "Come home, Makalaurë. There is nothing for you here."

"How long has it been?" Maglor asked, glancing back at Eönwë. The dark shadows under his eyes, the haunted look on his face, made the Maia shudder.

"I do not know. I have been among the Secondborn - they are to have a new homeland, you know, for all they did to assist the Eldalië. And they are a joy to teach-" He trailed off at the look in Maglor's eyes.

"A joy to teach, because they are easier to mold to your will than we were?" Maglor's mouth twitched in a parody of a smile. "But you were right, in the end. And you proved it to us, too, didn't you? You _won_. Aren't you happy?" In his voice was all the hatred, the self-loathing, the bitter regret of those who had followed the Spirit of Fire from Valinor into the darkness.

"How could I be?" _How could I be, when you still stand here, broken and alone? How could I, when you refuse to come back to Valinor, to be healed and perhaps, one day, forgiven?_

"You're no different than the rest of them. So stop pretending to feel pity for me. Go back to your... _pupils_." The elf turned away.

Eönwë was the herald of the greatest of the Valar, of no lesser order than Sauron Gorthaur had once been. And he no longer knew what to say to the son of Fëanor. So he took a step back, inclined his head, and vanished in a soft clap of air. Later, he knew the words he should have said, but by then it was too late to return.

_There was no pretending, Makalaurë. _

And this: _I will come back. Even if you do not wish me to, I will find you again._

* * *

The elf never stayed in one place for long, but Eönwë always managed to locate him. Most of the time, he hovered high above, closer to Arien's fire than to the ground, watching the dark speck below. Sometimes he thought he heard music, just on the edge of hearing, but that might have been his imagination.

Maglor was staggering along the beach, head down, panting. A puff of sand rose as the elf stumbled, and Eönwë winced. The horizon was a burning line of blue where the sky and sea met, the sand a blinding white and hot to the touch. He wondered what had brought Maglor here - Maglor, who had every cause to hate that which burned.

"Makalaurë, you're going to hurt yourself," he muttered, too low for the other to catch.

Maglor raised his head with a visible effort, squinting at the horizon. He took another stumbling step and halted, swaying. He sank to his knees in the sand, breath labored, and Eönwë's eyes went wide with concern. The Noldo stayed like that for a few seconds, grey eyes wild and unseeing, before pitching forward and falling face-first into the sand with a soft thump. He lay there, too still, water swirling about his ankles, tugging at his threadbare clothes.

"Makalaurë?"

* * *

He stayed, of course. What else could he have done?

The elf was alarmingly light, even in the arms of a Maia - Eönwë barely felt his weight as he carried Maglor up the beach, to where the trees cast dark shadows, where he could hide from the merciless eye of the sun. He lay the elf down, arranged his limbs so Maglor lay more comfortably, then stood over him, frowning.

_And now what?_

The first thing was to see to Maglor's nourishment, that much was certain. He wondered how long it had been since Maglor had eaten - not recently, if his gaunt face and current unconscious state were anything to go by. The elf had always been slim, but this - this was unnatural. And his lips were dry, cracked, blood drying on them, so it seemed that Maglor had neglected to hydrate himself as well.

Eönwë supposed he understood why, to be honest. Maglor had been so broken the last time he'd seen him, so empty - was it really any surprise that he had just given up? His brother had, in the end, so why not Maglor?

_I should have come sooner._

He turned away and pushed his way into the forest in search of a stream. What Maglor needed right now was water, fresh, clean water. Eönwë knew that dehydration killed faster than lack of food.

* * *

He stayed by Maglor's side the entire first night as the elf lay ominously still and thrashed about by turns. He tried dribbling water into his mouth - and some of it must have gotten in and done _some_ good, but most of it ended up spilling over Maglor's cheeks, wetting the collar of his tunic. The tunic, Eönwë noted, still had faded bloodstains on it - it must have been the same one Maglor had worn that fated night when he and his brother snuck in to reclaim their father's jewels.

_You should have let us die!_ Maglor spat again, and Eönwë winced at the memory. Had that been the wrong choice after all, letting them escape with the Silmarils? He had thought it was for the best - had only wished for no more blood to be spilled for those damned jewels - but it had ended in death all the same.

Maybe it was only the fate of this world, of Arda marred. Maybe it was best to leave it to its fate, as the Valar seemed content to do. But Eönwë had never believed in giving up on something simply because it was broken apparently beyond repair. There was always a chance to go back to the light, even after so much war and darkness and death - _always_.

_Or is that only another delusion?_

Maglor stirred and Eönwë's attention snapped back to the elf in front of him. The Noldo's skin was hot to the touch, and his pale face was suffused with a livid red, two bright splotches of color high on his cheeks. The back of his neck and arms had been burned by the sun, as well as any skin left uncovered by his clothing. To top it all off, it seemed that he had sun-fever as well - Eönwë had heard it called 'heatstroke'.

"Makalaurë?" he asked, not really expecting an answer, but hoping all the same. "Do you think you can sit up and drink some water?" He reached for the waterskin he had filled earlier, though the water was now warm, tepid.

The elf's eyes flickered open, fever-bright, reflecting the stars above and the dying embers of Eönwë's campfire. His lips moved, scabs breaking anew, beads of scarlet blood welling up. He whispered something too garbled for Eönwë to catch, and the Maia leaned in.

"Makalaurë? Do - do you need something?"

Maglor's hand shot out and fastened onto his sleeve with surprising strength. "Maitimo," he whispered, voice roigh. Eönwë froze. Had he forgotten? Or did he think that the Maia had the power to bring his brother back from the Halls of Mandos somehow?

"Maitimo..." the elf hissed again, voice a whimper of pain and need.

And then he realized - Maglor wasn't asking for his brother, he thought Eönwë _was_ Maedhros.

"I'm here," he whispered, reaching down and brushing Maglor's hair back from his sweaty forehead. "I'm here." The words were clumsy and heavy in his mouth, useless and not enough to put this elf back together.

Maglor pulled him closer, eyes wide and pleading, filling with tears. "Maitimo, please... don't... don't _leave me!_" The last words were a broken sob.

"I won't," Eönwë promised. "I - I'm not leaving, Makalaurë." His voice cracked and he licked his lips, watching the elf. Maglor's face relaxed. He let go of Eönwë, hand falling back into the sand. Something that might have been a smile crossed his face as his eyes drifted shut again.

* * *

Maglor woke several times that night, still crazed with fever. He called out - screamed - in his sleep, and thrashed around until Eönwë held him down, and clawed at his burned hands with his nails, over and over, until blood ran over his wrists and stained the sand. Sometimes he called Eönwë 'Maitimo', or 'Curvo', or 'Tyelko'. Once he called him 'Atar' and lay in his arms for a long while, shuddering, too dehydrated to even cry.

After that, Eönwë took to holding him all the time, keeping a firm grip on Maglor's arms, cradling the Noldo to him. It lessened the risk of the elf hurting either of them, and seemed to comfort him - or, at least, comfort him enough enough to drive away the screaming nightmares. And as the sunlight and moonlight and starlight fell on the Noldo's pale skin, highlighting the sharp planes of his face and casting ink-dark shadows, he could almost tell himself that Maglor looked a bit stronger.

One morning, after a quiet night, Maglor's eyes opened, clear grey unclouded with fever, skin cool to the touch. At first Eönwë almost didn't notice - Maglor didn't move, otherwise - until the elf spoke in a hoarse, cracked whisper.

"Water..."

Eönwë stiffened with surprise, a smile breaking across his face. He reached for the waterskin and handed it to the elf. Maglor took it in trembling hands and brought it up to his mouth, thin rivulets spilling over his chin. His throat moved as he gulped down water, and the Maia chuckled and reached up to pull it away.

"Not too fast, you'll make yourself sick. I don't feel like nursing you back to health again."

Maglor froze at that, hand poised to wipe away the water he had spilled. "How long?" he asked, voice guarded.

"A while. I did not keep track," the Maia admitted, shrugging and handing the water back. Maglor took it and resumed drinking, this time a bit more slowly. "You made for a rather... _demanding_ patient."

True to form, the elf did not thank him, or offer any sort of reconciliation. Instead, his grey eyes flashed with an echo of his old pride as he set the (empty) skin aside. "I did not ask for your help."

"It was given freely."

"Why bother? You could've just let me die. Eru knows it would have been easier."

"It has never been in me to leave anyone to die."

"Well, you-" Maglor broke off, coughing, spasms shaking his frail frame. Eönwë started forward, laid a hand on the elf's shoulder, only to have it slapped away. Maglor glared up at him, grey eyes blazing, and choked out: "Don't... _touch me..._ damn you."

Stung, Eönwë drew back. He saw something flash across Maglor's face - savage satisfaction, and regret. And still, _still_ - he could not find it in himself to hate this kinslayer, this Oathtaker, this son of Fëanor, the elf that sat before him, shattered.

"I will hunt something for your nourishment," he said, voice all cool courtesy. "Try not to die while I am away." He stood and left Maglor in the shade of the trees, hugging his knees to his chest, something in his eyes other than empty loneliness for the first time in a long time.

* * *

When he returned over the sand in the growing dusk, a rabbit hanging limp from one hand, he heard singing. The notes were lilting, haunted - full of sorrow and regret, telling of darkness and blood, fire on the water and the quiet of the dead.

He stood in the darkness for a long while, letting the music slip past him - and wondered. If the Valar had heard this song, this endless lament from a fallen child, would they have come sooner? What if it had been Maglor and his harp on the shores of Eldamar before Eärendil and his thrice-cursed Silmaril? Eönwë tried to imagine these notes swelling in the circle of the Valar, painting the burning ships, and ash on the wind, a chained figure and a fallen prince, three pyres fading under the trees, and two children huddled under their kinsmen's bodies-

As the notes fell away, he stepped out of the trees and was unsurprised to see the tears on Maglor's cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words not enough, never enough. Maglor's brow furrowed, anger darkening his face, and Eönwë wondered if this fury was any better than the former emptiness.

"Oh, you're _sorry._" Maglor's voice was like the crack of a whip, sharp in the evening gloom. "That makes it all better, doesn't it?"

Biting back a surge of anger - he _would not_ lash out, not at Maglor - Eönwë tossed the rabbit onto the sand and sat beside it, drawing out flint and tinder, scraping them together as he knew one was supposed to. Sparks sprayed across the wood he'd gathered earlier - and nothing caught. Frowning, he tried again. Copious amounts of smoke billowed up, making him cough, but still no flames.

"Damn this." He tossed the flint aside - so much for doing it the normal way - and concentrated, letting power flow from him. Within seconds, the fire was crackling merrily, orange and yellow glow driving the shadows back.

"There." He picked up the rabbit. "Starting fires without magic is hopeless, anyways."

Maglor made a soft, choked noise, and Eönwë glanced up in alarm. It took a few seconds for him to realize what the Fëanorian was doing: laughing.

Eönwë let a smile spread across his own face. It wasn't much - but it was a start. And it was better than nothing.

* * *

Most days were not so good.

Eönwë could not stay with Maglor - even if he had wanted to. He was still the herald of Manwë, and the Valar still needed him, even if Melkor was vanquished. So he left the Noldo after extracting a promise from Maglor that he would never disregard his own safety in such a manner ever again. And it might have been wishful thinking, but there might have been something besides bitter hatred on the elf's face as Eönwë vanished.

Time passed. The descendants of the Men he had taught - the descendants of Maglor's foster son - grew restless on the land the Valar had given them. They sailed north, and south, and east. And one day they sailed west, and the sea rose, and Númenor fell. Eönwë stood aside and watched as a few, lonely ships staggered to the beaches of Middle-earth, as a tall king stepped onto the sand, followed by his sons.

Time passed. The king fell in battle against Melkor's lieutenant, and his son took up his shattered sword and struck he who was once Mairon a deadly blow. Yet when the chance came, he did not choose to destroy that evil once and for all, despite the urging of Maglor's foster son and the white-haired lord of the Havens. He wondered what the Noldo might have had to say about the weakness of Men.

Time passed. The descendants of the king's son failed, and faded into shadow. Darkness rose once again. And the world forgot, slowly but surely, many things. He thought maybe Maglor could have made them remember, with his songs and his power - and wondered where the elf was. He considered finding him, but that always seemed to be put off until the next day, the next moon, the next year - and so on.

Time passed. Fire rose in the East. An heir of the king stepped from the shadows. Men and Elves marched side by side to face the spawn of evil. And a halfling from a quiet land brought the Dark Lord to his knees.

_What song would you have sung of this, Makalaurë? Or do you still sing only the same lament for your fall and the fall of your people?_

And as the leaves of the Golden Wood faded, as a last white ship set sail, he went once again to the shores of Middle-earth, to seek one he had once known.

* * *

He followed the music. Always the same song, drifting on the wind, filled with all the pain and regret of a fallen race.

_You sound so lonely, Makalaurë._

The elf he found perched on a sea-slick rock over the gently swelling ocean was a far cry from the proud son of Fëanor who had ruled beside his brothers in Beleriand. There was not a trace of his former finery, his satin-trimmed cloak or his gold-embroidered tunic. Maglor was dressed in an amalgam of common clothes, no doubt from whatever mortal towns he had passed through recently. All of it was not quite worthy of being called clean, though he was hardly filthy, either.

"I was wondering when you'd turn up."

"Were you?"

"What took you so long?" Maglor turned towards the Maia, feet steady on the slippery rock.

"There has been much going on in Middle-earth," Eönwë replied, shrugging. "Surely even you have noticed."

"The rise and fall of Morgoth's pet, you mean? Of course I noticed." The elf folded his long limbs and sat on the stone, heedless of the water soaking into his clothes. He patted the space beside him. "Join me."

Sighing, Eönwë clambered up and gingerly lowered himself down next to Maglor, trying to avoid the sharper outcroppings. "Why always the ocean, Makalaurë? Is there nowhere else to wander?" _Are you searching for something you lost long ago, is that it?_

Maglor was silent for a few long moments, gazing out over the water. "It's easier, being alone," he said finally. "And there's no one to see you weep."

"Still mourning, Makalaurë? After so long?"

"What else would I do?" Maglor asked, voice all tired rage and grief. "Who else would mourn them, if not me? The Valar? They never cared. They let us doom ourselves, fools that we were. The Eldalië? We were kinslayers. We led our people into the darkness. They have no reason to love us. No, I do not think any of them care, anymore."

"Makalaurë, I-" _I care, you know that. Not even I can say why, but I do._

"He used to say that we were alone. Maitimo, I mean." Maglor clenched and unclenched his burned hands, resolutely not meeting Eönwë's gaze. "Alone, because we were dispossessed, and even our own people deserted us. And, you know, our brothers kept on dying on us." He laughed, the sound unnaturally loud.

_He sounds like a madman,_ Eönwë realized, and wondered what had happened to the young singer that the Valar had loved so much. There was no trace of Kanafinwë Makalaurë the bright and beautiful in this hollow shell before him.

"Maitimo was wrong." Maglor was still smiling, a forced rictus of bitterness. "We weren't alone, because we were _we_. The sons of Fëanor. There were still the two of us, and we weren't alone." He struck his thigh with a fist, looking away. "Until he gave up. Then I was alone, wasn't I?"

"Never alone," Eönwë said before thinking, even if it was a lie - he had never been with Maglor the whole time, that had been impossible.

Maglor laughed, a crazed sound that echoed over the water. "I have always had my music, true. No one is alone when they can sing of the fall of their family, is that it?"

Eönwë sighed, reached out, touched Maglor's arm. When the elf did not pull away, he moved a bit closer. "Ah, Makalaurë, how we all loved to hear you sing." _Myself most of all_. "Your voice was so clear, so innocent - and all you sing of now is the fall."

"What else is there to sing of?" Maglor lifted his eyes, the same sharp grey of his father, and there was a harsh fire in them, tempered by solitude and regret, bright as the stars above.

"This." And Eönwë reached up, ran his hands through the Noldo's tangled black hair, pulling him closer. Maglor fell into him with a soft sob, letting Eönwë cradle him, wrap his arms around the shuddering elf as though he were a child. He held him until he could feel the elf relax, heartbeat thudding through both of them.

_Do you believe it, Makalaurë? That there's still something besides your pain in this world?_

"Stay with me," Maglor whispered into Eönwë's chest, voice muffled. The Maia shook his head.

"Come back to Valinor." _Come back home._

"I can't."

Eönwë sighed, clutched Maglor a bit tighter. He had no more words. Perhaps no more were needed.

In the west, a star rose, familiar light bathing the two of them. It washed over the elf and the Maia, lined the sea with silver. It was the color of memory and regret, silver and gold, that which was and that which had fallen. And it held the same fire that burned so brightly in every son of Fëanor, the second not the least.


End file.
